


Not That It's A Competition Or Anything

by abadmeanman



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Absurd romance, F/M, Marinette Dupain-Cheng/Juleka Couffaine, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 00:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13088808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abadmeanman/pseuds/abadmeanman
Summary: Adrien and Rose do what they do best: rrrrrrrromance.





	Not That It's A Competition Or Anything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [do-the-fandom-mash](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=do-the-fandom-mash).



> This is a Secret Santa gift for tumblr user do-the-fandom-mash. Happy holidays, do-the-fandom-mash! I was your secret santa!

With a flash of lightning, and a clap of thunder, the akuma struck Ladybug with a jolt of electricity. Her pigtails briefly stood on end and her skeleton briefly become visible, cartoonishly. She blinked, shook herself, swung out of the way on her yo-yo as a thin plume of steam rose from her head.

 

“I can’t believe Aurora got akumatized again! I didn’t even know that could happen!” she shouted to Chat Noir, as he pole-vaulted Rose Lavillant away from the park-cum-crime-scene. “And as basically the same akuma!”

 

“And same park! It speaks to Hawkmoth running out of ideas, my Lady,” he said, as Rose’s floppy sun hat and picnic basket flapped in the akuma-related turbulence. Juleka had already been safely spirited away by Ladybug, pre-zappage. “How else would he land on Stormy Weather 2: Electric Bugaboo?”

 

Ladybug paused, mid-swing. Which is to say, she kept swinging, but turned to stare at him, incredulous.

 

“ _ How _ long were you waiting to use that pun?!”

 

“ _ ALL DAY _ ,” he shouted over his shoulder, alighting on a rooftop and setting Rose down gently. “There you are, Ro--I mean, citizen with whom I am unfamiliar.” 

 

“Chat Noir, haven’t we met like, seven times?”

 

Chat Noir simply grinned and shrugged, turning back to re-enter the fray. 

 

And then he made a little cringing sound as he saw that her picnic basket had tipped over during his landing. He scrambled to set it back upright and replace the no doubt delectable confections therein, except…

 

“Hey… is this picnic basket just full of flowers?”

 

“Of course!” said Rose, chipper despite the mortal peril. “It’s a romantic picnic date, after all!”

 

“Uh, very good, citizen,” said Chat Noir, batonning off back into the fray. “Carry on! Stay safe!” He threw her a wave with one hand, which she returned with a smile and a blown kiss.

 

And meanwhile, in his own private monologue, he kept repeating to himself:  _ Damn. That’s romantic. _

 

* * *

 

Once Stormy Weather 2: Electric Bugaboo had been defeated (using same lucky charm, it turned out), Ladybug and Chat Noir went stealthily back to the Louvre to detransform. 

 

“Hey Marinette… if I were, to, say, ask Rose out…”

 

“Do I think she’d go for it?” replied Marinette. “Oh definitely. She’s just about the only person who could manage to out-romance you, I think.”

 

“Part of me wants to take that as a challenge, but my heart is aflutter regardless.”

 

“Well don’t use up  _ all _ the magic,” said Marinette, slipping her hand into his. “But I doubt anything could beat when you learned how to bake for me. You  _ are _ my king of romance, after all.”

 

“So sweet, my lady,” he said, pulling her up into a kiss. “Put in a good word for me in the girls’ group chat?”

 

“Oh babe if you think she doesn’t already know all your tricks you’ve got another thing coming.”

 

* * *

 

The date was off to a promising start as soon as both Adrien and Rose brought flowers. 

 

It went like this:

 

Working up to it, Adrien was a little nervous about bringing roses to a date with a girl named Rose. But what can you do--romance traditions are heady things, after all, and what was an impressive first date without roses. 

 

He went with one dozen, pink. A little off-brand, as you’d expect the color red to do the heavy lifting in the romance department, but bonus points for being her favorite color, Adrien thought. And given that Marinette’s favorite color was  _ also _ pink, he already knew a guy who could get him the good stuff, and by good stuff he meant pink roses. 

 

And so he found himself, hand-on-the-back-of-his-neck nervous, holding a dozen pink roses, standing in front of Rose’s door, blushing. 

 

Rose, for her part, practically bounced in her pumps as she opened the door, one dozen  _ red _ roses in hand, with a blush almost exactly matching the pink of Adrien’s bouquet.  _ Nice _ , Adrien thought to himself.  _ Nailed it _ . 

 

“We match!” said Rose, leaving to the interpretation of the viewer whether she meant the flowers, or them both blushing, or her blushing matching his flowers, or what. It worked on multiple levels, but then again, so does…  _ rrrromance _ . And  _ nothing _ is more romantic than matching your bouquet to your date’s blush. He’d picked that trick up with Marinette on like, date  _ two _ . 

 

Not that it was a contest or anything, but Rose: 0, Adrien: 1. 

 

* * *

 

“Oh Adrien! These seats are perfect!” 

 

What’s an evening on the town without some theater? Adrien had managed to score some primo matinee seats at the (AUTHOR’S NOTE: look up a famous French theater and put it here) (EDITOR’S NOTE: this omission was intentional, as a gag). Front row, center, with plenty of legroom. One could practically high-five the comic relief. 

 

“Oh!” said Rose, folding down her theater seat to find  _ yet another _ bouquet of flowers decorating the velvet. Red, this time--Adrien had figured he’d cover all the romance-color bases. Rose picked them up with a grin, and read the note aloud.

 

“ _ My dearest Rose _ ,” she read. “ _ I hope that a gift of more of your namesake will bring you as much joy as I have in accompanying you _ . Oh you scamp!” she said, slapping his arm lightly. “Double roses! I am impressed.”

 

“I can’t get enough rose in my life, I suppose,” he said, smirking.  _ At last. The five days of puncrafting pay off in this moment. _

 

Rose made a sound somewhere between a squeal and a squeak, and kissed him on the cheek, sweeping up her new bouquet and settling onto the cushion. “You scallywag! What a line,” she said. “Well don’t just stand there! Join me! I’ve got all of these knees, and no free hands to squeeze them with.”

 

Adrien obliged.  

 

* * *

 

The play that evening? A romance, of course. 

 

Well, a romantic comedy.  _ Twelfth Night _ was technically one of the Bard’s comedies, but it carried its weight in raised eyebrows and kissing and innuendo and what-have-you. 

 

The perfect kind of play to see while holding hands with a  _ lovely _ young fashion model, or an  _ adorable  _ young parfumier. And if Rose’s foot happened to slip up Adrien’s calf a little bit during the final few acts, and if Adrien’s hand squeezed a bit northward of the knee, well, that’s no problem at all. After all, Shakespeare was a dirtybird, as we know.

 

Adrien did, however, receive the start of his life when, after the cast had done the curtain call and taken their bows, “Viola” stepped forward and announced that the performance was dedicated to the most striking man in Paris, who happened to be in the audience that very night: Adrien Agreste. 

 

Not that it was a competition or anything, but Rose: 1, Adrien: 1. 

 

* * *

 

Adrien was  _ very _ proud of himself for his next trick. 

 

Modern restaurants are generally equipped with electricity, for a variety of reasons--candle-only illumination had gone the way of the dodo back when France had an emperor. But, if one happens to be the scion of the Agreste fashion empire, it’s a simple matter to reserve an entire restaurant for a night, and have the whole place lit with candles.

 

Rose gasped, putting a dainty bisexual hand up to her lips. “Oh Adrien! So romantic.” She reached to her left (daintily shifting her many bouquets to the crook of one arm) and pulled on a velvet rope that Adrien hadn’t noticed. “It matches the chandelier!”

 

His heart skipped a beat, with a surge of anticipation making his fingers buzz. Directly above their table, a panel opened in the ceiling and a glittering glass chandelier, illuminated by dozens upon dozens of pink candles, descended to light their meal. The flames danced in the shape of a heart.

 

Adrien, for his part, gawked. Now  _ that _ was romantic. 

 

“Thank you,” said Rose, and kissed him on the cheek, gracefully accepting Adrien’s silent compliment. “Now, what did Monsieur Agreste select for the wine pairing?”

 

Not that it was a competition or anything, but Rose: 2, Adrien: 1. 

 

* * *

 

The problem was (and it wasn’t really a problem) that Rose was incredibly, unbelievably, dramatically romantic. She was an elite, and Adrien had never before been truly challenged, in the romance department. 

 

He was sweating under his cravat (blue--matched her eyes), and dabbed lightly at his temples as his next romantic maneuver was wheeled out. It already seemed so weak, so  _ tawdry _ compared to the various glories of romance that Rose had devastated him with. 

 

The waiter placed the chocolate fountain on their table, and Rose clapped excitedly. That was simultaneously the best and worst part. She was soundly defeating him in romantic firepower at  _ every turn _ , and yet she also sincerely and earnestly enjoyed and appreciated every gesture he made. No matter how she’d outdone him. 

 

_ By god, she’s gracious in her victory, _ he thought.  _ And I’m just getting competitive as Kim trying to keep up. I should… I need to live in the moment.  _ And with that, he picked up a fork, speared one of a curated assortment of tidbits to envelop in liquid chocolate, and began to truly enjoy the decadence of the chocolate fountain. 

 

… Until he unfolded his napkin and discovered a small, folded piece of paper under it, which contained a poem that she had written for him.

 

_ And it rhymed _ . 

 

Adrien sat back, eyes drifting to the glimmering chandelier above.  _ I am absolutely destroyed _ . 

 

Not that it was a competition or anything, but Rose: 3, Adrien: 1. 

 

* * *

 

But Ladybug never gave up and dammit  _ neither did he _ . 

 

Adrien thought he  _ had _ Rose on the romantic  _ ropes _ when an attendant wheeled over the grand piano.  _ Nothing _ is more romantic than playing a song you wrote for your lover true. 

 

“I was so happy you said yes when I asked you out, Rose, that I couldn’t help but compose a little song. If you’ll indulge me, I’ll--wait.” He looked around. Where had she gone? 

 

“Oh Adrien,” said Rose, reclining slinkily atop the grand piano, flower clenched between her teeth. She somehow maintained perfect diction with a mouthful of stem. “How you  _ do _ go on. I’d love to hear your song!”

 

_ How did she… damn, _ thought Adrien. There is  _ nothing _ more seductively romantic than a woman draping herself over a grand piano, or at least that’s what all the midcentury black and white movies implied.  _ But… I haven’t unleashed my  _ art _ yet. _

 

He grinned as rakishly as he could up at Rose, who beamed around the flower in her teeth, and fingered the first chord of his--

 

And someone had put a note reading “I hope that chord isn’t the only thing getting fingered tonight” in the middle of his handwritten sheet music.

 

He played, because there was absolutely nothing to do but serenade her. Even if she’d absolutely devastated him, romantically. Even if he was helpless silly putty against her powers of seduction. How had she even  _ gotten _ to his sheet music?

 

Rose stretched languorously, or as languorously as a very short French girl can stretch, arcing her back up from the piano, as the perfect aperitif to the last resonant notes of Adrien’s song. She removed the rose from between her teeth, and, holding it at arm’s length, prodded him on the nose with it. 

 

“How did you even…” he began, but couldn’t continue.

 

“I’m exquisite,” said Rose, by way of explanation.

 

And she was. 

 

Not that it was a competition or anything, but Rose: 4, Adrien: 1. 

 

But Adrien mentally rolled up the sleeves on the romantic leather jacket of his imagination. He wasn’t  _ nearly _ done romancing Rose.

 

* * *

 

Red velvet carpet muffled their steps up the stairs as the doors to the Agreste mansion parted, and the string quartet started playing. Rose gasped, and Adrien felt her hand (which he was carefully clasping as he led her up the portico) squeeze his, in an involuntarily clutch of delight.

 

One of the advantages of being filthy rich (or as they would say in France,  _ crasseux riche _ ), is the fact that the atrium of your mansion becomes a ballroom if you simply add an orchestra. And oh, Adrien knew a  _ great  _ orchestra. 

 

After all, if you’re going to take the most romantically inclined gal in Paris back to your place, one simply  _ must _ do it in style.

 

He might not be able to outdo her at romance activities in a  _ restaurant _ , but something must be said for having a private ballroom at one’s disposal. And so they laughed, and spun, and Rose found out just exactly  _ how _ much she could feel like a princess all in one night. Adrien had  _ nailed it _ . 

 

Not that it was a competition or anything, but Rose: 4, Adrien: 2. 

 

* * *

 

As Adrien and Rose made out on their way to the boudoir (which is French for bedchamber), bouncing off of the walls at irregular intervals and giggling, a corner of Adrien’s mind was congratulating himself for absolutely and literally romancing the pants off of the most romantically-minded girl in Paris. She had been sneaky-- _ romantically _ sneaky--during their dinner and during his piano recital, but oh, a  _ ballroom dance _ is a pièce de résistance before which no romantic heart can fail to melt. Or, as the French would say, a  _ pièce de résistance _ before which no romantic heart can fail to melt. 

 

In anticipation of this eventuality, Adrien had made some preparations. The pathway to the bed was lined with candles, a cheery fire glowed softly in a fireplace he’d had specially installed, and he’d done some decoration on the bed itself.

 

Just in case.

 

(It was more rose petals)

 

… But how the fuck had Rose managed to scatter rose petals in a pathway to the bed?

 

… And how the fuck had she managed to surround the bed with candles in the shape of a heart? 

 

…  _ And how had she managed to install a hidden reservoir of rose petals which would gently shower over two people in a bed when you pulled on a velvet rope?  _

 

“How did you--” he began, surrounded by a cascade of petals. Because he had to know. But before he could complete the thought, he was interrupted by the soft  _ plap _ of a pink tulip plapping against his lips. 

 

“Shhhhhh, shhh shh, my darling,” said Rose, raising one hand to cup his cheek as she whispered. “Let the romance find you.” She tugged him gently, but insistently, to sit upon the bed.

 

_ Aha! _ thought Adrien, who had  _ also _ prepared for  _ this _ eventuality. He plapped an orange tulip of his own against Rose’s lips, even more gently, shushing her, but in a romantic way.

 

“Shhhh, quiet my love, let the emotion overcome you…” he whispered, around the tulip, delicately cupping her chin, and reclining further on the bed. 

 

“No no no, shhhhhh,” replied rose, plapping him in the eyebrow with a second tulip, red this time. “We need no words.”

 

“But I must express what I feel,” said Adrien, who felt like he had just  _ aced _ that delivery. Pure rom-com dialogue, right there. He stroked his second tulip (pastel yellow this time) down the line of her cheek and lips as they lay down on the bed.

 

“Shhhhhhhh,” said Rose. “Our love is so much more than we could ever say,” she said, as she plapped a third--

 

Wait a minute.

 

Adrien took a quick inventory: One tulip plapped against his lips, another against his eyebrow, both of which Rose was still holding in her dainty, pinkly manicured hands. And a  _ third _ tulip plapped against his nose, held by…

 

He looked down his and Rose’s reclining figures, to see an appealingly bare length of Rose’s leg extended from her hiked-up dress and bent up towards his face, the third tulip daintily clutched between her toes, plapping it onto his face. Adrien turned back to her, phenomenally impressed.

 

There is  _ nothing _ more romantic than softly holding someone’s face and plapping them with flowers. And Rose had done it  _ thrice _ . 

 

His admiration must have shown on his face, because Rose blushed the perfect amount, averted her eyes a tiny bit, then brought them back to gaze full into Adrien’s own  _ extremely _ fucking emerald orbs, and giggled softly.

 

“I’m very flexible.”

 

And at a certain point on a date, that is one of the most romantic lines you can say. Rose had undoubtedly, unbelievably vanquished him with romance.

 

Not that it was a competition or anything.

 

And, cinematically speaking, the rest of the night gently faded out on a soft-focus shot of the fireplace. 

 

* * *

 

“What’s the final score?” asked Marinette, cuddled up with Juleka under a blanket in front of a horror movie.

 

“Looks like Rose: 23, Adrien: 2, from Alya’s latest update.”

 

“Sweet. I beat the spread,” said Marinette as she popped another piece of popcorn into her mouth, and fed another one to Juleka.  

 

“Honestly, I’m surprised he scored at all,” said Juleka around said popcorn. “Rose is phenomenal.”

 

“What can you do? Bringing flowers to the door is a power play, and so is a ballroom dance. Those were his aces in the hole,” said Marinette. “Plus, I think we both knew he was going to…  _ score _ .” Marinette emphasized her extremely mature joke by elbowing Juleka in the ribs. Juleka giggled, and elbowed her back, which started a brief elbow fight that ended with them getting yet snugglier. 

 

Juleka sighed, and tilted her head into the crook of Marinette’s neck. “It was awfully sweet of Alya to spy on them for us. How extra do you think they’re being right now?”

 

“At least  _ extra _ extra, we’re in 2X territory absolutely.”

 

“Maybe even extra extra extra?”

 

“Oh definitely possible we’ve hit 3X.”

 

“Well, I for one know that Rose was  _ definitely  _ hoping for it to get a little triple-X at the end.”

 

They giggled at that for almost the rest of the movie.

 

When the credits were rolling, Juleka got a little smirk on her lips, and ran her hand up the back of Marinette’s neck, very gently. She whispered into Marinette’s ear: 

 

“I’m, uh… a little scared after that movie. Maybe you could… escort me back to my room?”

 

Marinette smiled and nodded, walking back to Juleka’s boudoir still wrapped in the blanket. After all, who said Adrien and Rose got to have all the romance?


End file.
